A Remit
by Michael Green
I.
Quiet me like
office tension.
But we, between
the immediate
plateau
and a drink
so coasterless,
are in asunder—
red-mad like the buried
matter of your twice-
scar, read like the teeth-
clenched when you say again
warm the pot
warm it up for me
II.
Warm it for
today’s bath,
but to be by means
of a wrongness,
the residual
leeks seed
a bitterness
vis a vis to the dirt
the baby was left on.
And we, lost to watch
the space between tiles
or between our toes.
This we resounds, bodily
like plants teething outpour
III.
The plants grow out
of it, this phase.
From a forthright
kind of up,
to tomatoes exploring
shrub and the shrub
bugs, in reciprocation,
gut them into new space.
The we
we hollow
in speech
climbs the
fence, then through
the window
IV.
The windows
are less so
when bars mar
the view.
My alley dumpster
where are you tonight?
Shall I expect the violent
or the sexy?
In a fog, a bulb
and a tone low
as lull, I let you know
about the bad, bad day,
more so, I let we
into the old garden
V.
Into that garden
where usurpers
stir the awn
and we,
pressed to
dead stems
press on
albiet.
A missing hour
and a stain,
seams breaking
and a clouded dawn
you, pressing so hard to
quiet me